Claws Away, Kitten!
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: Modern-day Isabelle returns to Moonacre and soon discovers that Moonacre isn't at all what she is used to. No electricity, horseback-riding, Robin de Noir and his Merry Band of Psychos on a terror! And she's a Moon Princess!
1. Chapter 1

**A.N.**: This is another Moonacre fic, based on my daydreams of what it would be like being a modern-day girl going to live in Moonacre with candles and horses and Robin and his Merry Band of Psychos on a terror (my new favourite phrase I made up :D) So it's called Claws Away, Kitten! and I've changed it a little bit from the previous first chapter I uploaded:

Her name is Isabella Merryweather, and her mother is dead in this one; I _did_ have her mother being alive and broke, which is why they return to Moonacre. Now I'll stick truer to the book/movie.

Enjoy, and please review :D

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Our story begins the first true week of summer, a strange and breathless time, when accident, or fate, bring lives together, when people are led to do things they've never done before… _Tuck Everlasting_ introduction from movie.

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It wasn't easy to ignore the horrendous bumping and jostling of the wagon drawn by two stout brown horses as Mr Digweed led them up a winding dirt road filled with potholes and divots—but somehow Isabella managed it, owing more to the scenery around her that she was, for the first time in her life, at leisure to look at because the horses weren't exactly comparable to her mother's old Mercedes, rather than any form of entertainment; her mother had gotten rid of everything electrical that they possessed, and with the constant bumps and being tossed off the blanket-strewn hay-bale she sat upon, it made it impossible for Isabella to read anything, which really annoyed her, as Isabella did love to read.

There were several types of people in the world; people who took comfort in company, people who took comfort in personal adornment, and people who took comfort in food. Vain Isabella qualified the second, and the imperious Ragdoll cat Ortino who had come to Isabella's mother Elodie as a kitten when she moved to London filled the third description: his little fleshy pink tongue caressed his fine whiskers for any remnants of the delicious picnic they had shared an hour and a half ago, prepared by the chef of Lord Benjamin Merryweather of Moonacre, Isabella's uncle and her only remaining relative—that she knew of. She had never met her father.

Devoid of her iPod and without the ability to read without fear of vomiting, Isabella sat frowning at her dainty little feet—every part of Isabella was little and exquisitely proportioned—which were bedecked in a pair of exquisite _Dolce & Gabbana_ rhinestone high-heels that glittered beautifully in the brilliant West Country sunshine. It amused Orsino, too, for he spent at least twenty minutes darting around the moving wagon (which was painted a lovely spring-green with delicate yellow meadow Ranunculus) trying to catch the rainbow reflections.

Digweed was a smiling-faced, kind man with blue eyes innocent like a baby's, and hummed amiably to himself, completely contented to sit alone on the bench, driving the horses, while Isabella sat on a blanket-covered hay-bale in the back of the wagon. He was another man who worked for Isabella's Uncle Benjamin, and had picked her up from the derelict, tumbledown railway platform that had been suspiciously like the one in the beginning of _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_.

Isabella wanted to know why she'd been sitting with a bundle of twigs stuck up her bottom for the last three hours. _Why are we in a horse-drawn cart?_ she wondered, shaking her head in bemusement. For all her short life—Isabella was sixteen, just out of her GCSE examinations at school, on the verge of her seventeenth birthday—Isabella couldn't remember living in the country: Elodie, her mother, had moved them away from Moonacre Valley when Isabella was five years old: she had no idea it was so…_backward_.

She groaned in pain as they were bumped in a dip in the dirt road and her now-tender bottom screamed in protest. The hay-bale she perched on kept moving about in the back of the wagon and it was a wonder she hadn't lost any of her luggage along the journey, especially now that they were headed up a gentle incline.

As well as pretty decorations, Isabella was very fond of creature comforts, comfy chairs and soft mattresses and warm duvets—and being a townie, she didn't like being exposed to the elements, wondering all the time whether a bird flying over them, singing light-heartedly to the heavens, would decide to poop all over her head. She yelped, startled, as she was tossed off her hay-bale onto their luggage, as Digweed directed them over a deep rut in the road. Isabella hauled herself back onto her hay-bale. Digweed glanced back, smiling.

"Apologies, Miss Isabella," he said, smiling in that wrinkly, charming way that was instantly heart-warming.

She smiled at Digweed and glanced away, over the meadows and fields Digweed had taken them around. All she could hear was…_nothing_, really, only the _clip-clop_ of the horses and the gentle clack of the wooden wheels. The breeze that concealed how warm it really was made the greenery everywhere rustle softly and nightingales and skylarks—or so she assumed they were; Isabella had never been a nature buff, as she had lived in London her entire life—sang beautifully in the air, and little animals scurried around in the grass that was speckled everywhere with jewel-bright wildflowers.

The meadows and fields seemed limitless, and ocean of green, and the sky was larger than she'd ever seen it, and such a beautiful shade of forget-me-not blue, with not a cloud, not even those little wispy ones. She noticed instantly when the wagon stopped—mostly because the whole contraption lurched and the air stilled completely.

"Why've we stopped?" she wondered, glancing past the horses, as Mr Digweed left his perch: Isabella saw a rough-hewn carriage-house with an enormous gate that appeared rusted and disused, large enough even for an old carriage to pass through easily. _It's the gate to Moonacre_, she thought, nibbling her lower-lip thoughtfully. Her mother had mentioned it once, how Moonacre Valley was…was their very own version of Narnia, except without talking animals. But there was magic. Even though she had raised Isabella to be a sensible girl, Elodie had always instilled in Isabella the insistence that there _was_ such a thing as magic.

Isabella thought the countryside in itself was magical. It was beautiful here, Isabella had to admit: she'd never seen anything like this: Beautiful, quiet, serene, only the soft snorts of the horses and Digweed's complacent humming filling the air.

Her scream rent the air as something grabbed her round the waist and hauled her over the side of the wagon, shouting something that, in her blind panic, was incoherent, but she found herself struggling against a pair of strong arms clad in black. She didn't know she had such a good scream on her.

"Get off _ME_!!" she shrieked, writhing in the strong arms as the hands that belonged them searched at her throat and the pockets of her second-skin jeans. She clawed her pretty, long fingernails against the boy-man's right hand, scraping away the skin and drawing blood. He yelled and jerked his hand away involuntarily, still holding onto her with his other arm clamped around her waist.

She cursed herself for being so small and slight; though she was very vain of her exquisite sylphlike figure, it did make this situation seem impossible.

She remembered one of her favourite films, _Miss_ _Congeniality_, and the now very appropriate advice Gracie Hart had given the audience.

_Don't forget to SING_, she remembered. She wriggled so much that her elbow got free, and she wedged it in her attacker's gut—_Solar Plexus_: he yelled, winded—she was glad of her stiletto sandals when he surged forwards again—_Instep_—he screamed, hopping as her heel dug into his leather-clad toes—_Nose_—she whirled around and shoved the heel of her palm at her attacker's nose (which was covered with a strip of black fabric to disguise his face)—and finally he yelled, "No, no, no!" _Groin_—as she wedged the toe of her sandals in his crotch. She pushed him to the floor when he buckled, bent over double, and didn't wait to watch him fall before clambering back into the wagon, grabbing her biggest handbag to start walloping the second assaulter, the one with studs on his bowler-hat, enough that he let her go and dropped to the floor, clutching his head where she'd beaten him, and Digweed set the wagon to rolling again, through the gate, reaching up in time to catch a long, jangling chain to release the catch on the gate.

Isabella panted, her nerves fluttering every which way, her hands trembling, every vein in her body flush with adrenaline as she watched the two boy-men smack their palms against the gate in anger. "What the blinking buggary was that?" she panted, kneading her palm against her heart. What the _hell_ had they wanted? She shivered, too shocked to do anything else, and as Mr Digweed drove them closer to Moonacre Mansion, everything was gilded with early-evening dew reflecting the moonlight: Isabella had never seen the moon so _enormous_.

She glanced at the trees carpeting the hills down into the valley; she noticed they ran in a line up to a certain point, namely wherever there were settlements (there were tiny clusters of thatched-roofed cottages scattered sporadically around the lower-ground of the valley near the unevenly-marked fields by the lake) and they seemed to stop at the foot of the hills. Everything, in the early twilight, glimmered silver, illuminated by the too-large moon.

In the dying sunlight that beamed from behind them, now, she saw…it was almost indescribable—Rivendell made into a house for people, not elves, with two towers, one taller and slenderer than the other, that looked like they should belong in Lothlórien. That was how she saw Moonacre mansion, anyway, but it wasn't glittering and illuminated with iridescent shimmering light like in the movie; this Rivendell—Moonacre—was dark, a deep shadow set against a diamond-studded sky.

They moved along the winding dirt road through what her mother mentioned were walled gardens and meadows all belonging to Moonacre, and the Lothlórien-like towers got larger; only a select few windows of the mansion were illuminated with light and the rest of the house looked dark and _almost_ frightening in comparison.

But Isabella had never seen anything more beautiful—set in the heart of the most stunning of natural beauties—and her chest ached with longing. She _knew_ this place. Whether she had seen it before or not, she knew it; she knew this was _home_, more of a home than the house in London had ever been. Even though it seemed imposing, the fiery amber glowing from select windows on the first floor made it far less foreboding, much more welcoming. There was an enormous tree growing almost right beside the front of the house, with easy access onto the rooftop, from which anyone could get to the towers.

The wagon lurched to a stop outside the archway covering the enormous carved front-doors, which were thrown wide open, and in the dim twilight, Isabella saw that, standing at the top of a set of steps intricately carved out of glowing wood and dipped in the centres from long use, stood a tall shadow with broad shoulders and a stiff stance.

Isabella had never been a very elegant girl—no, that wasn't quite right; she was elegant when she wasn't moving; on her feet, she had never been able to go twelve hours without tripping over, and as she tried to climb out of the back of the wagon, wondering if her knees wouldn't cave after the shock of the ambush, she tripped and yelled as she went plummeting to earth; someone with strong arms caught her around the middle.

"Easy on, little niece," said a pleasant deep voice, and she was set carefully on her feet. Isabella had to look up quite a distance; her uncle was very tall, completely opposite to Isabella's mother, who had stood a tiny sylphlike nymph at 4'8", and her own dainty stature of just 5'3", and where her mother Elodie had been raven-haired with eyes like forget-me-nots, Uncle Benjamin was dark haired, and had sharp dark eyes. But there was a little softness in them when he tweaked the corners of his mouth upwards in a saddened smile.

"Welcome back to Moonacre, Isabella," Uncle Benjamin smiled sadly. "Unfortunate circumstances, I know. But there we are. Nothing to be done about it now…Come inside, you must be hungry."

He led her to the front double-doors, which were twice Uncle Benjamin's height, and into the hall: The stairwell was immaculately panelled with smoothed silver wood, but she couldn't see where the floor separated to the steps or the wall, so she guessed that—"Is this house made entirely of wood?" she asked, frowning bemusedly. It certainly gave her the impression that it did; everything flowed together so gracefully; the walls were decorated with sinuous arches that looked like branches intertwining near the ceiling, each of the arches filled with plaster and painted beautifully as if they were walking up an incline in the forest.

Uncle Benjamin chuckled. "Yes, or very close to it," he said, smiling. "Most people assume it is all panelling, but our ancestors, when they settled here in the land William the Conqueror granted them, were expert artisans as well as warriors; this house is built entirely out of two giant mellyrn trees, hollowed out."

"Mellyrn?" Isabella frowned; she'd heard of that before. In the _Lord of the Rings_—Lothlórien was a forest of mallorn trees in which the elves lived. "Mellyrn are _real_ trees!"

"Real in Moonacre, yes," Uncle Benjamin said, and leading them up the well-worn steps, Isabella found herself in the great hall. Like the stairwell, the entrance hall was made entirely of wood; beside the stairs was a double-doorway, and on the left-hand wall was a corridor by way of a curtain pulled aside, and beside that archway was the enormous fireplace, a mirror above the mantelpiece which was incorporated into the design by the carvings of the wood, as if the artisan had carved enough wood away to reveal the mirror, framing it with a network of unicorns, lions and peacocks: right in front of her, adjacent to the front-doors, was a set of tall double-doors into what Isabella saw to be a grand dining-room with large windows draped in embroidered silk curtains; on the right-hand wall of the hall was another set of double-doors, which were closed, and beside the staircase to the front-door, another flight of steps went up, turned, crossed over the front-doors and turned again, all of it supported by sinuous pillars of mellyrn wood that looked as if any moment they would snap like toothpicks.

Ortino, collected under Isabella's arm, squirmed and she glanced up; at the hearth, between a delicate little chair embroidered with butterflies and a large, winged armchair with a sunken footstool there was an enormous black wolf; she stilled, her jaw dropped, and she stood frozen with apprehension—not so much _fear_, but apprehension. The dog's eyes were _red_.

"Don't worry, Isabella," Uncle Benjamin smiled, seeing her apprehension. "Wrolf can kill in an instant—but you're a Merryweather. He would rather die than harm a hair on your head." Wrolf fixed his eyes—which had suddenly turned chestnut—on Isabella and Isabella felt as if her very soul was being examined. He gave a soft bark, as if of approval.

"Come, dinner is prepared," Uncle Benjamin said, and he gestured into the dining-room behind him; Isabella let Ortino drop to the floor, and with his brush of a tail held proudly in the air, he sauntered over to Wrolf's paws and curled up beside him on the hearth, purring softly. _Well, if Ortino isn't afraid of him_, Isabella thought—but Isabella was afraid of _everything_. But the look that Wrolf had given her had seemed to her to be a sort of claim, like he had a lock on part of her soul and would never be restful if there was any danger threatening it. She followed her uncle into the dining-room, and found it to be lovelier even than the hall.

As before, the entire room was carved from mellyrn, with two enormous picture-box windows, and the buffet service on the left, and the china cabinet in the upper-left-hand corner by the left-hand window, and the glass-fronted china cupboard to the left of the doors and the great fireplace were all carved out of the mellyrn, the backs attached to the walls, which were also painted beautifully in places: she was surprised to see that the large dining-table was _not_ carved from the mellyrn, nor were the dozen chairs set around it, all of them with sinuously carved high backs and upholstered with soft silver silk with a raised floral, leafy pattern in gold which echoed the drapery at the windows and the delicate patterns painted on the walls—it looked like dawn, the walls, with the candles shimmering off the paint so that everything appeared illuminated with soft, early-morning light. It was magical.

The table was spread with a fresh linen tablecloth, on which was set a number of tureens, platters, bowls and candelabras set amongst great bowls of beautiful flowers, and three places had been set at the far end of the table, with beautiful china, exquisite cut-crystal and heavy silverware. Isabella had never seen as much decadence outside of the _Marie Antoinette_ movie.

"I hope you didn't go to too much trouble over me," Isabella said quietly. She was always shy around strangers, and even though they were family, Uncle Benjamin _was_ a stranger. Uncle Benjamin chuckled, as if it was nothing, and pulled Isabella's chair out for her; she sank into it, filling her lungs with her favourite smell. It was a full roast-beef dinner with all the trimmings—crispy roasted potatoes, caramelised parsnips, French beans, fresh carrots, cauliflower and broccoli-cheese, Yorkshire puddings and fresh peas. Uncle Benjamin sat himself down in the chair at the head of the table that Digweed pulled out for him.

Isabella couldn't help it; she helped herself to everything within reach—even the cabbage, because for the first time it didn't have that _smell_ that was almost…noisy. Everything was absolutely divine—the roast beef was just juicy enough, the roasted potatoes were crunchy on the outside and fluffy on the inside, the Yorkshire puddings were perfect for caching gravy, and the vegetables were the best she had ever eaten—they tasted like _vegetables_.

"Everything you see here before you has been reared on Moonacre property," Uncle Benjamin said proudly, onto his second plate. Isabella saw he possessed the Merryweather appetite, and the impossibly fast metabolism. But even Isabella began to slow down, filling up; this Moonacre food was absolutely nothing like she'd ever had before—it was so _wholesome_; it actually tasted like food. But it was strange, eating by candlelight; she glanced around the room as she ate—there were no electrical sockets, no hint of anything with a bulb or powered by electricity; there was a gas lamp over by the buffet service, but that was the most advanced thing in the room.

"I don't think I can manage another morsel," she groaned, lolling in her chair, feeling her jeans protesting. She couldn't wait to get to bed and take them off: she didn't usually wear jeans.

"Pudding, Miss Isabella?" Digweed said smilingly, and Isabella's eyes flew wide open, her back went ramrod straight and she gazed upon Digweed in wonder as he revealed the spread at the buffet.

Her mouth watered: Trifle, Black Forest gateau, profiteroles, strawberry and rhubarb pie, ice cream, fruit tart, fresh fruit, fairy cakes, and summer-fruits Pavlova. Digweed handed out bowls and there was a scuffle between Isabella and her uncle over the profiteroles covered with the most chocolate sauce, until Isabella noticed the jug of extra sauce.

After she'd had her fill of puddings (she sampled everything and loved all) Isabella was offered Uncle Benjamin's arm, and, armed with candlestick-holders that matched the sconces on the walls, he led them out of the dining-room and up the stairs.

"Isabella, you are the new mistress of Moonacre Tower," Uncle Benjamin said, smiling at Isabella as if he thought she would enjoy that.

Ortino snorted most ungracefully, as if in amusement, blue eyes on Isabella. Isabella glanced up at her uncle in terror. The tower? That meant a high-up place.

Isabella was afraid of everything. Heights in particular, sharks, snakes, shrikes (she'd been traumatised from watching the baby field-mice being killed by a shrike in _The Animals of Farthing Wood_ as a child), drowning, paper-cuts, animals, strange men, the dark, cold, pain. Heights predominated. Uncle Benjamin saw her petrified expression.

"Is something the matter?" he asked, frowning.

"I…" Isabella blushed hotly and beckoned him closer, so she could whisper in his ear. "I'm afraid of heights."

"You'll be quite safe in the tower, I promise you," Uncle Benjamin smiled, and offered Isabella his hand rather than his arm, and fought an internal battle over which was the lesser evil—heights, or hurting Uncle Benjamin's feelings by declining the tower-bedroom. Heights, she deemed, were a lot easier to deal with. She took Uncle Benjamin's large paw and he led her into the antechamber in which a spiral staircase was built—just like in Lothlórien, around the outside of an enormous tree-trunk bigger than a house, with many sinuous archways filled with glass that glittering with reflections of the candle sconces: it was easier not to remember she was climbing to a high place because it was growing so dark outside all she could see was the forest, and a tiny bit of the cultured lawn in front of the house.

There were several doors leading off the staircase into what had once been the trunk of the mellyrn tree, but it was at the very top where Uncle Benjamin stopped her, at the top of the staircase, in a little parlour, with a semi-panoramic view broken by the wall with the staircase leading to her bedroom, and the fireplace, which was ornamented only by two simple sconces, a little chair like the one in the hall, upholstered with forest-green silk embroidered with tiny red wild strawberries, a matching footstool which added the little white strawberry flowers, and a little table with another candelabrum lit on it with a little sewing basket beside it.

"Moonacre is to be your home, Isabella, for as long as you desire it," Uncle Benjamin said graciously. "This is where you belong, at Moonacre: I'm very sorry to hear you are afraid of heights, but perhaps this room will help you change your mind." With that, he gave her a smile that made his eyes twinkle warmly in the candlelight, and bid her goodnight.

When he had disappeared down the staircase, slipping silently down the polished, smooth steps that dozens had traversed, Isabella went to the staircase which wound up again from the parlour; at the top of this exposed staircase was a tiny door to her new bedroom. Upon it was a tiny knocker polished so brightly it gleamed like silver; it was a tiny horseshoe, a good-luck symbol as much as the continuation of the unicorn-theme at the fireplace, and she undid the little latch that made a friendly click.

She _definitely_ wanted to live in the tower _forever_. Unlike the hall and the dining-room, her bedroom was constructed primarily of a flet in the middle of the highest branches of the mellyrn tree, the last room built from the trunk itself being the parlour. In this way, the bedroom had an absolutely panoramic view of the valley: here, there were several arches filled with gleaming glass, while in between, the wood had been treated and painted, she supposed, to reflect in direct correlation what lay around in the valley. Delicate little lanterns hung from the walls and another fireplace had been carved out of the tree.

The furniture was also of mellyrn, but unlike in the dining-room, the pieces were free for her to move about as she pleased; a delicate dressing-table, a lovely desk, a little work-table, a chair upholstered in silk the blue of a spring dawn embroidered with tiny shells and baby starfish, and the bed—oh, the bed! Bigger than a king-sized, the frame was the only thing carved directly from the mellyrn, carved with beautiful animals and mermaids and shells; the headboard flowed seamlessly in with the branches that intertwined overhead like they would in the forest, and for a second Isabella thought the ceiling was open to the elements, because the stars that were painted into the sunset-blue sky glittered and throbbed with light. Everything glowed shimmering silver, and the coverlet on the bed over the white sheets was a soft pearl-white silk embroidered with shells and starfish and doves and flowers.

"_Wow_," Isabella groaned in amazed disbelief. Her bedroom in London had been nothing like this—her furniture had been from Ikea, and the colours had been garish, her computer had whirred loudly because it was so old, she had never had enough room for her books and her clothes had always spilled out of her tiny wardrobe. She had never had a room this beautiful, but instantly she felt like it had belonged to her all her life. She plonked down on the chair beside the fire and kicked off her shoes, sighing, and noticed that her overnight bag had been brought up and sat on the stool at the dressing-table. She shimmied out of her jeans, kicking them off and leaving them on the floor where they crumpled in a heap, and almost choked herself to death trying to get her top off (which was normal) and opened her bag to retrieve a little marzipan satin camisole and French knickers set she had designed and created, trimmed with needle-lace she had also made. Elodie had taught her how to.

She wondered for a moment whether this had been her mother's bedroom, when she was a teenager—sixteen years old, carrying Isabella, giving birth four months after her birthday. She wondered whether her mother had sat in this chair, contemplating what her life would bring, now that she had embryo-Isabella to think about too. Whether she'd lain in bed, crocheting or knitting, or making the delicate lace people paid a fortune for on their wedding-gowns, gowns Elodie made couture for her customers, and which she had never worn herself. It was the great irony, and Elodie was always amused that she made her money out of making wedding-gowns, when she herself had never been married.

Thinking about her mother made Isabella's curiously silvery-grey eyes well up with hot tears that made everything go gold and blurry. She pushed her tears away and tugged her hair out of its ponytail, slipped into bed and noticed instantly how warm the sheets were, as if someone had slipped a warming-pan between them. They smelled absolutely lovely, and the scent made her stop thinking about how much she missed her mother and best-friend, and she drifted off to a sleep filled with sweet dreams.

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**A.N.**: Tada! Reprised first chappie! Please review :D

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	2. Chapter 2

**A.N.**: This next chapter is from Robin's POV, so please enjoy and _REVIEW_!!!!!

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They ran all the way back to Castle de Noir in the twilight; night had truly fallen by the time they burst into the great hall where everyone was taking their evening meal, panting and, in Robin's case, bleeding, and thoroughly winded.

"Well this is pretty," Coeur de Noir frowned disapprovingly, as Robin and Henry sank into their usual places at the table, panting. Robin touched his palm to his nose tenderly, drawing his hand away to see blood. That little witch had bloodied his nose! Luckily Henry had been bludgeoned by a heavy bag just seconds after watching Robin get his arse handed to him by that ferocious little kitten, and Robin hoped he had been concussed. They had already decided on a little white lie to tell his father, the real reason they didn't have the girl; it wasn't that, at a head shorter than Robin, she'd been able to completely trounce their ambushing skills, but that she had had her man with her, which owed to the black eyes Robin would see once he got upstairs.

"I don't think she's the one you want, Father," Robin panted, reaching for a silver goblet filled with dark ale.

"And why is that?" Coeur de Noir growled threateningly. Robin winced when the brim of his goblet touched the bridge of his nose.

"She's too young," Robin panted, still winded from where the little minx had jammed her sharp little elbow into his gut. _Where'd girls learn to fight like that, anyway_? he wondered, nonplussed.

"What do you mean, too young?" Coeur de Noir growled.

"She's younger than me—younger than Henry," Robin panted, glancing at the youngest member of their little quartet; he was eighteen, and Robin's cousin through his father's sister, orphaned and under Coeur de Noir's care: he took better care of Henry than he did Robin. His father had given them directions to snatch the Moon Princess when she returned from London, after almost twelve years of absence. The girl in the wagon was sixteen, or seventeen at most, a tiny, exquisite little thing, but her exquisiteness was deceiving; he'd never had his nose bloodied before…except by his father.

He noticed Tristan de Noir, cousin to Robin's father, sitting at table with the rest of Coeur's court for the first time in over a decade: people said his heart had broken over the death of his wife; Robin thought differently, for Tristan's son Richard (like Tristan, the only blonde de Noir of his generation) had always said there had been no affection between his parents; he'd known that even when he was a baby. At the mention of the mysterious _too-young_ Moon Princesses, he glanced up sharply, his cutting pale-grey eyes burning holes into Robin's face as he looked at his father.

"What did she look like?" Tristan asked suddenly. Robin glanced at him, caught by the question. They had expected an older woman, in her thirties.

He and Henry had watched the wagon from their hiding spot for a few minutes before the wagon had stopped, and he almost forgot what they were supposed to do, too stuck on staring at the girl in the back of the wagon. She had a fountain of wavy raven hair so glossy it had shone like silk, and her soft oval face was so fair it glowed like the moon inside the halo of midnight hair. Her features were exquisitely carved, with a delicate nose, a very sumptuous mouth, and enormous pale-grey eyes the size of the moon. Even though she was tiny, she was so exquisitely well-proportioned that she appeared more like a perfect doll, with long legs and a tiny waist, slender arms and beautiful hands.

"And she didn't have them?" Coeur growled. Robin shook his head. "Tell me _why_ you did not think it imperative to follow direct orders, Robin. Why is she not with you now?"

"They teach girls how to fight in the outside world, Father," Robin said, wincing as he touched his nose tenderly: the back of his right hand smarted whenever he flexed his fingers; there were three gashes scabbing over from that little lynx's nails. And he she had bloody kicked him where no man should _ever_ be kicked, not to mention he thought his stomach was bruised by the way it smarted against the buckle of his belt. Blonde, handsome Tristan chuckled to himself, mopping up the remnants of his tender beef stew with crusty fresh-baked bread, smirking.

"Oh in_deed_!" Coeur laughed humourlessly.

"She had her man with her," Henry put in, his right eye swelling up where he'd been hit over the head with that lynx's bag several times.

"You're going about it all wrong," Tristan said, taking a gulp of ale. Robin glanced at him; so did Henry and Coeur and Dulac, and Richard and short David.

"What would you suggest, Tristan?" Coeur asked dangerously. But Tristan wasn't afraid of Coeur—the _only_ person who wasn't afraid of him. Tristan enjoyed the privilege of being neither Coeur's lieutenant nor his adviser; he was Coeur's cousin and enjoyed all the privileges of being lord of the castle with none of the responsibilities. He did what he liked and nobody could say anything because he was Coeur's cousin, and should Robin not have sons, the castle would pass to Tristan, then to Richard.

"The way to a Merryweather woman is through her heart," Tristan said, sipping his ale. Robin frowned; Tristan's handsome, chiselled face was _sad_. The grey eyes had darkened to the colour of the sea before a storm. He fixed those eyes—which suddenly turned sharp—on Robin and Robin shivered. "You want to catch the Moon Princess, you had better learn how to get her to trust you."

"And how do you do that?" Robin asked derisively, rolling his eyes. How was he supposed to get a Merryweather to trust him if she was—a _Merryweather_?

"Easy enough when the right equipment's involved," Coeur laughed loudly, and the girl sitting in his lap feeding him giggled. Robin glared at her, hating how his father treated the women in Castle de Noir only because they weren't his mother. She had died years ago, just after Loveday ran away to Moonacre. Only Robin noticed the look on Tristan's face, and he was suddenly more afraid of what Tristan could do than what he knew his father could.

"Don't be vulgar, Coeur," he growled. Tristan otherwise ignored Coeur and glanced at Robin. Robin sighed; he'd escaped a lashing because Tristan was here, but he knew when his father was severely disappointed and angry—he never made it a secret, not from anyone—that he thought he deserved a better son than the one he got in Robin.

After a big consolatory meal, Robin traipsed up to his bedroom, where the great stone fireplace, tall enough for him to walk into, was ablaze with light, filling the otherwise cold room with heat; he barred the door and kicked off his boots, dumped his jacket and belt on the trunk at the foot of his enormous hand-carved four-poster bed, draped with deep crimson curtains, and sank onto the bed with a great sigh, rumpling his hair with his hands. He smiled at the litter of six fawn masked English Mastiff puppies Grace had been nursing for two months, and Strider lifted his enormous head to bark gruffly, as if asking, "Where've you been, it's late?"

"Oberon, not my good boots," Robin sighed, wrestling his boot from cheeky Oberon's mouth; he wagged his tail playfully and his wrinkled face grinned as imperious Isolde sauntered over to climb as daintily as a Mastiff puppy could up the steps into his four-poster, to curl up by his thigh with her nose in his hand. Sweet Chloe and ironically named Goliath, the littlest puppy in the litter, raised their noses, curled up beside their mother's head, and Toby and Ursa both barked happily at seeing him. He sighed, knowing that soon he'd have to give them up to new owners; Strider used to be his father's personal guard-dog: Grace had been his sister Loveday's great protectress.

He sat, thinking about Loveday. _She_ had married a Merryweather. _Married_ him, so she must've gained his trust. He wondered how she'd done it. He stroked Isolde's soft fawn fur and sighed, his shoulders slumping sadly. His mother was gone, and he hadn't seen his elder sister for nearly ten years. It was just him and his father.

He wondered what punishment he'd get for failing to bring the Moon Princess home. And he wondered what he could've done with her if he _had_ brought her home.

He smiled to himself, biting his bottom lip, and lay back against the soft pillows filled with down, squirming luxuriously, remembering how it had felt to have the Moon Princess wriggle her little, soft body against him, and how she'd fit almost perfectly with his chin touching the top of her head, and how slender her waist was when he'd lifted her off the wagon so easily.

He tutted to himself, breaking his concentration from a vision of kissing that sweet, mocking mouth she had, and shook his head. No matter what Tristan said, there was no way he could befriend a Merryweather…could he? Nobody would allow it—not his father, not Lord Merryweather. No, he had to figure out another way to grab her.

He turned his attention back to scratching Isolde behind her ears, which made her roll onto her back for him to scratch her stomach, and he smiled, contented. He loved his dogs. He heard a soft, low threatening growl and traced it to Goliath, who stood quivering in the corner, and Robin watched him pounce; there was a small squeal, and Robin stood to look closer; Goliath had caught a mouse, and was using it like a ball to play with, passing it between his paws. Robin glanced at Goliath, and then at Isolde, and smiled.

_Girls_ loved puppies. The girls of Castle de Noir were always wanting to play with them. Girls _loved_ baby animals.

_Excellent_, he thought, smiling as he stroked Isolde. He had a plan.

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**A.N.**: How'd you like it?

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	3. Chapter 3

**A.N.**: Another chapter for this fic! Please review!

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As Isabella drifted slowly into consciousness, the first thing she noticed was the rather annoying sound, at first waking, of _birds_ chirping happily and unconcernedly outside her bedroom-window. She wrinkled her nose and rolled over, sprawling across a bed that was entirely too big for her single-bed. She cracked one eye open and hissed, curling into a ball like a hedgehog under her duvet, blocking out the light of the lovely pale forget-me-not blue sky filled with sunlight. She relaxed, listening, and remembered that there were no trees near her bedroom window at home, and the closest thing to birds were pigeons that cooed annoyingly all the time and flew into the tiny bathroom-window, which made Elodie shriek of a morning.

By far a better wake-up call than her mother's scream was the little gift left on the leaf-shaped ledge beside her bed, which acted as a bedside table: a tiny little delicate glass, etched with a pretty leaf motif, caught the light, and she saw it was filled with milk, and on the little plate it stood upon were several biscuits decorated with white icing. She smiled, tugged herself into a sitting position, and reached for the plate, sitting carefully so that the milk didn't spill; she took the glass and noticed it was chilled, and when she took a sip of the milk, she noticed it was sweeter, creamier than normal milk. The little biscuits were ginger, and in the shape of a butterfly, a fawn, and a starfish. She sat munching the biscuits and sipping the yummy milk, gazing around her bedroom. She frowned, and wondered just what had driven her mother to leave here in the first place. _Um…me_, she thought, tutting sadly.

Elodie had never said much about Moonacre, or Isabella's father—the one time she had asked, Elodie had cut off all communication with her for six days. All she had ever said about being such a young mother was that her parents had never forgiven her for not telling them who Isabella's father was—"mostly so Papa couldn't string him up the nearest tree."

Things didn't work in Moonacre the way they did in the 'real world,' for instinctively Isabella knew, sitting in her lovely bed in her Lothlórien tower, that Moonacre was _not_ part of the same world as she had grown up in. It was her mother's version of Narnia, for Elodie had instilled in Isabella several things; her great, irrepressible beauty, her slight vanity, her sentimentality, her addiction to written word and her love of all things beautiful, and creating them.

Moonacre, as she climbed out of bed and went about the polished mellyrn-wood floor flung with soft sheepskin throws, peeking meekly out of the high windows, _was_ beauty in itself. She gazed around, taking the panoramic tour of the valley, of which they sat in the heart, and took everything in. Everything shimmered in the post-dawn hour where things were enamelled with gold and silver; there was not a cloud in the sky, and the forest and meadows that carpeted the valley were such an impossibly lovely shade of green. The only thing that reminded her of the city—of London, and specifically the Tower of London—was a four-towered tumbledown castle off to the East. It was located at the summit of a hill bedecked in forestry, and it was the sole place in the entire valley that did not look lovely. It might once have been tall and grand, but now…

She looked around the room and noticed that her jeans and her top had been folded neatly onto the stool by the dressing-table, her bra on top, and that her suitcases had been brought up at the foot of her bed, and, on the desk was an old leather-bound book set with pearls and gold embossing on the cover and a gold clasp.

She shuffled over to the desk, running her hand over the cool leather cover. "_The Ancient Chronicles of Moonacre Valley_," she read, flicking her eyebrows up. She lifted the book, and went to sit down on the chair by the fire, shifting until she had found a most comfortable spot, opened the book, examined the thick leather embossed bookmark, and started to read.

'_Once upon a perfect time many hundreds of years ago, when the old magic still clung to Moonacre Valley like early-morning mist, there was a young woman whose skin gleamed as pale as a star and whose heart was as pure as moonlight. Such was her bravery, and goodness, she was beloved by Nature, as if she were its own daughter_.' Isabella settled back into the cushioned seat and examined the watercolour picture on the right-hand page: she swore she the picture _moving_, showing the story as she told it. '_One fateful night, the moon blessed her with an extraordinary gift that would change the magic of the valley forever—the moon-pearls_. _From that day forth, she was known as the Moon Princess'_, she read, turning the page.

'_Two ancient families lived in harmony at the edge of the valley, sharing nature's bounty. Daughter of the Du Noir clan, the Moon Princess fell deeply in love and was to be married to Lord Wrolf Merryweather. Her father, Sir William Du Noir, blessed the union by presenting the couple with a rare, black lion._

'_In turn, Lord Wrolf gave his bride a unicorn, lured from the wild, white-horses of the sea. Her heart overflowing with happiness, the Moon Princess revealed the magical pearls to both families.'_ The picture was of the Moon Princess, flawlessly beautiful in a white gown, holding a lovely jewel casket and the pearls linked around her fingers, holding them aloft, bathed in moonlight. She was blonde, and back in the time she had lived, she had probably been very little—little enough to get through her bedroom-door—and Isabella thought she looked very like her mother with her fair halo of golden hair. '_Legend told of their unique power, so strong the pearls would grant every wish, both good and evil_.'

Her stomach panged, and she realised the biscuits that had been left had been done so to stave off her hunger for breakfast; somehow sleeping always made her hungry. She grabbed her spare t-shirt and underwear out of her overnight bag and almost concussed herself tripping over when she tugged her jeans on, stuffed her feet into her little pair of Turkish slippers with the fuchsia pompoms and grabbed the book, intent on discovering who had given it to her and where she could find the library—because what manor-house didn't have its own private library?

It was easy to get downstairs, and she hummed happily to herself, feeling more at home as she slipped down the stairs without tripping and falling down on her arse than she had ever felt in London. She barely noticed that she was very high up in the tower, too intent upon the stunning views the windows afforded rather than what it would be like to fall hundreds of feet to her death.

Uncle Benjamin was sprawled in his armchair by the fire with one leg extended on the footstool, waiting for her; he stood up, smiling, and Isabella felt less frightened—until he saw both the book in her arms and the outfit she wore.

"Where did you get that book?" he asked, frowning dangerously. Isabella glanced down at the book she lugged in her arms and bit her lip.

"Um…it was on the desk, in my room," she said quietly. Uncle Benjamin took it from her gently and frowned thoughtfully.

"Of course," he said to himself. "It was the last thing she read before she left…This was never meant for you to see, Isabella." With that, he took the book and stalked towards the double-doors right at the foot of the staircase.

"But—Uncle Benjamin—I haven't finished reading it yet," Isabella said desperately. If there was one form of torture Isabella could never live through, it was the anticipation of finishing a book. She averaged a book a day, sometimes an afternoon, and even then she had time to knit, or crochet, or embroider or make lace for the pretty things her mother had taught her how to make.

"Good," Uncle Benjamin said quietly. "You'll live a lovelier life for it." His voice sounded so heartbroken, he sounded like _Isabella_. She knew she would never be the same since her mother passed away. He disappeared for a few seconds, and then came striding back into the hall: he gave her jeans a very disapproving frown.

"Upstairs you will find several trunks filled with clothing appropriate for a Lady of Moonacre," Uncle Benjamin said quietly, gesturing at the stairs. "Please go and change into something I can approve of." _Henry Higgins—he's a misogynist_, she thought, frowning at the way he glared at her jeans.

"But…I always wear jeans," Isabella said, glancing down and feeling at once extremely self-conscious.

"Not in Moonacre you don't," Uncle Benjamin said, and he smiled, his mood changing instantly. "I think you won't object when you see what's upstairs waiting for you."

"But…there's nothing upstairs," Isabella frowned. Now that she came to think about it, she'd been so focused on breakfast she hadn't noticed much else.

"Go and check, and then we can have our breakfast," Uncle Benjamin smiled. _New clothes_, she thought, and that was enough to make her zoom up the stairs. Isabella wasn't very proud—but she was vain like her mother had been; they loved pretty things, and hoarded them, created them and loved being admired in them.

The tower was different in the sunshine; the mellyrn wood glowed a deep, lustrous gold, even though in colouring the wood was silver, and filled the staircase with glowing light from the sun that curiously managed to hit the tree at all angles. She found the staircase wasn't as long as she had thought, and the tower wasn't as tall as she had feared; four storeys, the same height as some of her classrooms at her old school. She skipped into her little parlour and upstairs found the trunks Uncle Benjamin had mentioned; a large one, a medium-sized one, and a pretty, little one on the top, which, when she opened it, was filled with beautiful ribbons and sashes of silk and velvet and satin and taffeta in all hues of the rainbow.

She placed the trunks on the floor in front of the dressing-table and opened them, gaping at what she found within: "Who am I, Anne Boleyn?" she asked herself, tutting softly, as she unfolded gown after gown. The largest trunk was filled with gowns made of silk-velvet—heavy gowns with exquisitely fitted bodices with low, square necklines which were heavily-embroidered, with embroidered bands above the elbows with long, flowing sleeves almost to the floor: there were skirts of silk and cashmere and delicate lace blouses, and a lovely lace tea-dress, knitted shrugs, embroidered shawls, coats, capes, cloaks and newly-made underwear—delicate little bloomer-type shorts trimmed with needle-lace and ribbon, camisoles of silk, cotton petticoats trimmed with homemade lace and ribbons, and long coloured stockings with ribbons worked into the hem to tie and hold them up above the knee—all embossed at the hem with her initials _I. M._. The medium-sized trunk contained _shoes_. Delicate little slippers of floral-embroidered satin, one pair to match exactly the velvet dresses and the silk skirts, a pair of button-up walking boots in soft black leather, and a pair of over-the-knee black leather riding-boots that made her drool.

She picked out a deep, shimmering fuchsia dress of silk-velvet, with the long, wide over-sleeves of heavily-embroidered rose-pink floral silk that flared just above the elbow and sparkling white organza under-sleeves embroidered with crystal beads around the wrists that had belonged to a_ D.M._, a little white poplin camisole decorated with tiny rose patterns and little bobbles, trimmed with lace, and the matching shorts, yanked the pair of white stockings with the fuchsia ribbons out of the bundle, a fuchsia velvet ribbon from the tiny trunk and set to getting changed for breakfast, tugging her hair out of its usual ponytail and instead twisting two thin locks of hair from her temples, tying them with the fuchsia ribbon at the nape of her neck. If Uncle Benjamin wanted a proper Lady Merryweather, well, he would get one! Even if she _did_ feel like Anne Boleyn.

"I rather like my neck," she said to herself, examining her reflection in the tiny mirror propped up on the dressing-table: it was small, and the edges were decorated with hundreds of tiny sea-shells and dead baby starfish. She caught sight of her slender white throat and decided to tie a slender length of white organza ribbon around her throat, so that the bow was tucked at the back of her neck. She picked out the delicate little fuchsia satin slippers sewn with tiny crystal beads that matched the dress, grabbed the pair of walking boots and took a little beaded reticule-bag to carry the book she'd bought just yesterday, and made her way downstairs, hoping Uncle Benjamin would like what she had chosen to wear.

Uncle Benjamin was already sat in the dining-room, but waiting patiently for her before tucking into his bowl of either semolina-pudding, porridge or rice-pudding, Isabella's personal favourite. She put her boots under the butterfly chair and her bag on top of it and strode into the dining-room, beaming and twirling around as she walked to her chair, which Digweed pulled out for her with an appreciative smile. Uncle Benjamin's smile glowed warmly from his dark eyes.

"Very beautiful," he said genially, giving his approval.

"That'll be your breakfast, Miss Isabella," Digweed said, placing a bowl of homemade rice-pudding before Isabella. She glanced up to give Digweed a smile, and set to eating the breakfast she never usually ate: rice-pudding in her house was from a tin and served only as a treat after dinner. She tucked into it—at Uncle Benjamin's suggestion—without the raspberry jam she was so fond of eating out of the jar, and started: she had never had homemade rice-pudding before; it was so thick and creamy, and it filled Isabella up much better than the buttered toast she usually had. She finished the bowl, and a second, and her mood lifted enormously. It was the happiest she'd felt in a long time. And when Uncle Benjamin excused her, she went back up the stairs, thinking instead of reading that she might like to look through the dresses her female ancestors had handed down to her unknowingly.

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She spent most of the morning trying everything on: everything fit her exquisitely, and she loved the figure the bodices gave her, pushing her breasts up with a lovely silhouette, the skirts of the dresses flowing with elegant trains, and once she had decided that she loved Moonacre fashion than 'real world' fashion, she tugged what she wanted out of her suitcases and took them down to her parlour, to ask Digweed to put them into storage, and went back upstairs to sprawl about like a princess in her gowns. She learned through these dresses that almost all Merryweather women were little of stature and slender of figure, but a few of them were taller and made the skirts of their dresses train beautifully when Isabella put them on.

She noticed that some of the clothes had tiny initials embossed into the inside of the necklines of the dresses—some of them were _E. M._, some of them were _H.M. _and some, the oldest-looking ones, were _B.M._ Elodie after her mother, and she guessed the Hs and Bs belonged to her grandmother and great-grandmother, or aunts or something. When the tiny little Fabergé-style ostrich-egg clock on the mantelpiece started to chime a beautiful, melancholy tune she recognised as _Clair de Lune_ at noon, she ran down the stairs to find Uncle Benjamin, again sitting in his fireside armchair, frowning into a book, apparently waiting for her. She had put the fuchsia dress back on and noticed her book and boots still remained by the butterfly chair, and she landed with a flourish after jumping the last two steps, as was her habit at home. She smiled at Uncle Benjamin and he stood, gesturing to the dining-room.

"Why the boots, little niece?" he asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the hall, where on the hearth Wrolf chewed on a great bone and Ortino played with a small ball of wool, and her boots remained tucked, unnoticed by Wrolf (who she would have expected to chew them to pieces) under the chair.

"I was going to go for a walk," Isabella admitted. She glanced at her uncle. "But I think I may go after lunch."

"You should take Wrolf with you, when you go," Uncle Benjamin said, immediately quite protective, his voice darkening. "And please avoid the woods."

"Why?" Isabella asked curiously, and Uncle Benjamin paused, frowning, as he pulled out her chair for her.

"There are… A particularly unpleasant family lives in the castle—the de Noir clan," Uncle Benjamin said, and he said the name as if it were a derogatory insult. Isabella frowned up at her uncle.

"You mean like the de Noirs in the fairytale?" she asked interestedly.

"Fairytale?" Uncle Benjamin frowned. "The de Noirs are very much real, Isabella." From the way he said it, she got the impression that he was trying not to say that the entire book was 'very much real.' "And they are the sort not to appreciate trespass. So please—"

"Stay out of the woods," Isabella nodded. Even though she was tiny and he quite fearsome, Isabella saw the similarity in the two estranged siblings; they were both unduly solemn for reasons Isabella didn't know.

She turned to admiring the house: at midday, the dining-room was absolutely glowing with sunshine, warm and bright, and the mellyrn wood shimmered dark lustrous gold and sensuous silver in the sunlight. It was _nice_ here; she sat down in her seat and smiled at the lunch spread. A big salad of freshly-cut lettuce, cherry-tomatoes, cucumbers, raw peas and radishes was tossed with vinaigrette, and there was a platter of cold meats, the roast beef from last night and a honey-glazed ham, potato salad, coleslaw, beetroot, and a fluffy quiche Lorraine.

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**A.N.**: Another chapter. Please review :D

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	4. Chapter 4

**A.N.**: Another chapter—I've been toying with a lot of different ideas for what will happen to make this fic different from the movie, so I don't just copy out line-for-line, so I'm thinking I'll have Isabelle and Robin romantically entangled with each other a while before the Last Moon—and also, it takes a few weeks for the events of the film (movie) to unfold in my fic, May and most of June, and the events of the Last Moon occur on Midsummer.

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After lunch, Isabelle traded her slippers for her boots, did up the buttons and lifted the hem of her skirt; she had no sooner set foot on the steps down to the front doors when Wrolf bumped his side against her legs, joining her.

"Are you coming along too, Wrolf?" she asked, smiling as she scratched him behind his ears, which made his long, bushy tail wag happily. He barked softly and set off to the left, taking her on a tour around the outside of the house, and then to the walled gardens, which were so full of roses that she thought she might be ill; she had seen the walled gardens from her room, but Wrolf didn't stop to let her dawdle in the walled gardens; he led her straight to what she saw, once he opened the tall russet door set into the stone wall, was the orchard; apricots, pears, apples, peaches, blackberry-bushes, strawberry patches, and—

"Cherries!" An enormous cherry-tree took up the centre of the walled orchard, absolutely groaning with dark-red fruits. Wrolf stalked right up to it, rammed his side against the trunk, and sat down facing her when a rain of cherries fell to the floor around him.

"You're a clever boy, aren't you," Isabelle grinned, scratching his ears again so he gave her a grin. "How did you know these are my favourite?" Cherries were Isabelle's favourite fruit, of all her favourites (she loved fresh strawberries and any sort of a pudding made with apples) and she went around picking up the ripe fruits Wrolf had loosed for her, storing them in a swathe of her lifted skirt. She sat down with her back to the trunk of the tree, and with her feet propped up on Wrolf's stomach, she opened her book and finished the last half of _Twilight_.

_Lucky I already bought all the sequels_, she thought, smiling to herself, itching to read _New Moon_ after finishing the sample excerpt in the back of the book. She glanced up and noticed that the sky had turned the most magnificent purplish fuchsia among the cherry branches, a few clouds gilded with brilliant gold. _Wow, I've been out here for ages_, she thought, amazed that she hadn't noticed the change in brushed at least fifty cherry stalks off her skirt and stood up, cringing guiltily at the number of cherry stones there were scattered about where she'd sat; Wrolf hauled himself on the floor and seemed to smile to himself; he didn't mind sitting quietly with her: _Uncle Benjamin isn't much of a talker either_, she thought, collecting another few dozen cherries to take inside, and Wrolf led the way out of the orchard.

Wrolf had nudged the latch open for the front-door and she slipped inside; seeing her uncle sprawled in his armchair by the fire. He sat up straighter, smiling at her as Wrolf took his place at his master's feet.

"You'd best put those away, little niece," Uncle Benjamin said, indicating her boots and book and bag. By the number of times he'd referenced her like that, she guessed that 'Little Niece' was an affectionate nickname. Isabelle sat down on the butterfly chair and undid the buttons of her boots, slipping her little satin slippers on instead, and stashed her things on the butterfly chair before Uncle Benjamin guided her into the dining-room, where dinner had been spread out: there were three filets of delicious white cod, which had been cooked in a little bit of butter, a tureen of mashed potatoes that had a hint of garlic in them, and fresh carrots and French beans.

"Tomorrow, Isabelle, I shall give you a tour of the house," Uncle Benjamin said, as Digweed set a large strawberry-and-rhubarb crumble and a jug of fresh custard on the table. "Have you explored the tower yet?"

"No, I haven't," Isabelle admitted guiltily. Between trying on the 'appropriate attire for a Merryweather Lady of Leisure' and finishing the last half of _Twilight_, she hadn't put much thought into the rest of the house—the rest of _her_ tower. But she knew one thing, without having to see all of the house: _God, I love this place_, she thought, battling Uncle Benjamin for the last of the crumble.

After dinner, Uncle Benjamin decided that they should sit in the Mauve Room, which was reached by entering the double-doors directly to the left of the stairs when climbing up the steps from the front-doors: "It was our mother's favourite sitting-room," Uncle Benjamin smiled, opening the doors in the doorway carved with flowers, and let Isabelle inside.

The Mauve Room got its name from the utterly decadent opal-coloured mauve lampas silk covering the top-half of the walls, while the bottom half were panelled with cream-coloured lemonwood; the same silk covering the walls upholstered the sinuously-carved chairs: the ceiling had been painted beautifully like the Vatican or something, and the cornice had purple irises entwined with ribbons: paintings hung from copper rods mounted below the cornice and the two enormous windows would have filled the room with light during the day; the candles made the silk shimmer beautifully like pearls. There were several bookcases packed with books and photograph albums—they were the old-fashioned photographs in black-and-white or brown, some of them touched up with watercolours—and the ledge that ran around the room above the panelling was absolutely filled with photograph-frames. By the window, turned at an angle to the corner, was a lovely delicate lemonwood desk draped with a lace cloth, and behind a wood-and-glass screen stood a wonderful mauve-silk chaise, a little table and a pretty armchair: there was a big banquette where Uncle Benjamin said they used to have teas when they were little, and a vertical piano had been fitted with a specially-crafted lemonwood frame. Baskets were scattered around the room, filled with board-games and puzzles.

Uncle Benjamin sprawled out in an armchair under the window with a book, after turning an old gramophone to play some Tchaikovsky and Isabelle tested out the softness of the chaise, deemed it absolutely fantastic, and sprawled on it, finding it perfectly sunken in the middle for her. It was 'pre-loved,' just like most of their furniture at home in London had been, but this chaise was absolutely gorgeous. She turned on her side to examine the contents of the magazine rack right between the chaise and the table, and found it to be filled, instead of magazines or newspapers, with delicate folders of sheet-music.

Although she wasn't particularly an active girl, Elodie had raised Isabelle to be a useful, productive one: she had never liked to see Isabelle sitting about idle: she was of the impression that "idle hands were the devil's workshop," and with her sewing things upstairs, she didn't feel like breaking her _Twilight_ state-of-mind by reading anything else, and so picked several Mozart and Rachmaninov pieces and poked her head around the screen.

"Uncle, do you mind if I play?" she asked, indicating the cream lemonwood piano. He straightened in his seat and reached to lift the needle from the gramophone, turning it off.

"I don't mind at all," he smiled. "You always used to love playing." Isabelle glanced at her uncle bemusedly before going to the vertical piano; she adjusted the stool and opened the lid over the keys. She opened one folder and found the music to be the first movement of Mozart's _Piano Sonata #16 in C_. Isabelle had been playing the piano since she was a toddler; she had been taught by her very talented mother, and usually spent hours playing. She _liked_ playing; she liked the music she created. It was as pretty as anything tangible, and she did like to delight all her senses.

"My god, you're a virtuosa!" Uncle Benjamin laughed, when Isabelle's fingers started flitting over the ivory and ebony keys of their own volition, her eyes following the music in front of her rather than her fingers. "You were still making juvenile compositions the last time you played for us."

"Us?" Isabelle prompted interestedly, cocking her head curiously at her uncle. He smiled sadly.

"Your grandparents—my parents, George and Harmony Merryweather," he smiled, and his eyes turned soft and wistful as he gazed at her, his expression turning sad, heartbroken. "They were so fond of you…it broke my mother's heart when _she_ took you away." Isabelle nibbled on her lower-lip nervously, eyes downcast.

"Mother never told me we used to live here. I don't remember it," she confessed quietly, somehow guilty that she couldn't remember a place this astoundingly beautiful.

"You were born here," Uncle Benjamin smiled. "Elodie was in labour for twenty-three hours. You were so tiny I could hold you curled up in one hand." Isabelle was still tiny, so she didn't doubt that.

"I'm sure she loved that you don't remember Moonacre," Uncle Benjamin chuckled humourlessly. "Elodie never really _was_ meant for this world—she had always wanted to leave, but when she took her with you too! That was too much for Mamma."

"Why?" Isabelle asked curiously, her voice gentle, knowing no good came of her mother running away. Uncle Benjamin watched her for a few seconds, until she became uncomfortable with his inscrutable brown gaze on her, and he decided what to tell her.

"Mamma was very ill, even before you were born," Uncle Benjamin said softly. "But when you were a baby," he smiled, though his eyes watered in remembrance of his mother—she realised he had lost his mother too, just as she had—"She absolutely _adored_ you. And, when Elodie took you away…it broke her heart. She wasted away after that. Papa died three months later."

Isabelle had never known her father—she didn't even know his name—so she couldn't truly understand the loss of Uncle Benjamin losing both his parents and his sister in such a short space of time. But she knew what it had felt like, standing alone in the churchyard while her mother's coffin was laid low.

"I'm sorry," Isabelle said quietly. Uncle Benjamin smiled at her suddenly, flashing lovely white teeth.

"It's just as well, really. If Papa were here, we'd never see you—he'd have you riding all over the fields and hillsides, down at Merryweather Bay," he chuckled. "I think he loved you even more than Mamma did, if it was possible. He was always spoiling you….He loved you so much." He shook his head, his expression falling. Isabelle pushed aside the sheets of music and wiggled her noise thoughtfully, then set her fingers to the proper keys and started to play. It was a piece by Sergei Rachmaninov, his 'Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini.' It was her mother's favourite, but she preferred it listening on a record because then strings were added, making it so dramatic that it made her cry. Isabelle's favourite by Rachmaninov was the one she played next—Rachmaninov's 'Piano Concerto #2 In C Minor, Moderato.'

She finished with a piece she knew by heart and that she knew, instinctively, that Uncle Benjamin would never have heard. It was the beautiful piece from _Titanic_, 'The Portrait,' and she had learned it in its most complicated form. It was one of her favourites; she always played it before she went to bed: Elodie had always loved listening to her play while she worked.

"You look tired," Uncle Benjamin remarked quietly, turning back to his book when she slid the cover over the piano keys. "I won't be offended if you go up to bed now." Isabelle _was_ surprisingly tired for having spent the day doing practically nothing; she supposed travelling yesterday had had something to do with it. So she bid her uncle goodnight—daring to lean in and give him a gentle kiss on the cheek—and made her way out into the hall.

* * *

Someone—Digweed, she supposed, had left two candlesticks on the table Uncle Benjamin used to hold his decanter of wine, and she picked one up before turning to the stairs. She climbed the stairs, not noticing the height she gained with each step because she was too focused on her feet: She had lived her before. Her grandfather loved spending time with her; she'd healed her grandmother of some illness after she was born and…and Elodie had broken many hearts when she had left Moonacre.

As she shuffled into her parlour, she caught the vibe first before she noticed what was different about the room. Too intent on the new frocks Uncle Benjamin had cached from previous generations for her, she hadn't noticed there was a painting on the wall, above the fireplace between the lit sconces. The portrait was of a beautiful woman, with a forest scene in the background in twilight.

The woman had a beautiful face, with high cheekbones and a somewhat sharp nose highlighted by the moonlight, but her face was lovely, smiling; her eyes were the prettiest thing about her—like Isabelle's own eyes, they were a lovely clear grey, but like the woman's hair, her lashes were tipped with gold rather than curling ebony like Isabelle's. By the French hood she wore, Isabelle dated the portrait to an earlier decade of the reign of Henry VIII (she loved_ The Tudors_, and had the music for the piano). The hood was a deep, lustrous midnight-blue silk of nobility embroidered heavily with black lace and needlework and tiny pearls, echoing the trim of the low, square neckline of the very tight bodice, which was also of the rich, midnight-blue silk, and which showed the edge of the chemise beneath; she wore a delicate little choker of seed-pearls and a locket with a heart etched onto it, and another chain tucked into the neck of the bodice, and the wide cuffs of the short-fitting sleeves were of black fur, with the tight silk under-sleeves trimmed with pearls at the wrists. She wore a silver girdle of heavily-embroidered silk, and she held something in her delicate, pretty hands.

Her smile, Isabelle thought, was secretive, knowing, as well as somewhat seductive. It was the 'You can't stop looking at me, can you?' smile of a beautiful woman who _knew_ she was beautiful. But her eyes—like Isabelle's own—were the most enigmatic part of her; though lovely and pale, brilliant like stars, Isabelle thought they held an excruciating amount of pain and sadness. She was heartbroken, even though she was smiling.

_Mother's smile_, Isabelle thought. Her mother had had the same smile—pretty, smiling lips but sad, wistful eyes. Yes, it was the smile of a heartbroken woman.

She managed to take her eyes off the painting long enough to notice that someone had left a treat for her on the mantelpiece; another little glass of milk, and a chewy golden-syrup flapjack. She smiled, picked up the treats, and ate them on her way upstairs.

She stopped upon the threshold of her room. Not because she had left the door open and now it was closed, or because when she opened it she could hear the soft crackling of the fire, but because she saw that none of the gowns she had let explode from the trunks this morning were where she'd left them. She ducked her head into the room and stopped to look about: the trunks had all been tidied in a neat pile by the dressing-table and a new cotton peignoir (a long-sleeved nightdress with buttons down the front, more like a pretty petticoat or dressing-gown) had been laid out on the bed with a pair of slippers placed neatly by the fire to warm them.

She went to the trunks, displacing the smaller ones so she could open the larger, and slipped out of the fuchsia velvet ensemble she'd put on this morning, folding it neatly on top of the other gowns that had somehow found themselves neatly folded in colour-coordinated piles in the trunk. She put the little satin shoes and boots back into their trunk, untied the ribbon in her hair and put on the peignoir, finished the last of her milk and sank under her covers, wiggling until she found a comfy spot, smiling because someone had left a warming-pan between the sheets again.

She gazed up at the ceiling, and sat up abruptly, staring, as one of the stars appeared to spontaneously combust, then soar across the ceiling; she watched its progress, and when the star reached the window, outside in the night sky, a shooting star followed the same path. _Whoa_.

She hadn't realised she'd moved to Hogwarts. Her ceiling really _did_ show everything that went on around Moonacre.

* * *

**A.N.**: Yes, um, I've changed her name to Isabelle. Explained in the A.N. in Chapter Five. Please review!


	5. Chapter 5

**A.N.**: Okay, re-reading my story (I confess I actually wrote quite a few more chapters than I've updated) I've decided I don't like the name Isabelle—no offence to any Isabelles out there—because of its affiliation with _Twilight_, which, for all the shirtless werewolves, is horrendously badly-written, and Bella's the most annoying person in the entire world. So Isabelle's now just _Isabelle_ in this story. I can't be bothered to change the other chapters, so from now on I'm just going to write Isabelle.

* * *

The next morning dawned just as the first had, with one or two exceptions: although gilded with bright gold, there were large, fluffy white clouds on the horizon, and there were no biscuits waiting on the leaf-ledge. She squirmed luxuriously and wasn't as allergic to the sunlight as she had been yesterday; it was gentler today, filling the room with silvery light rather than deep gold, and she sat up, glancing around the room, smiling.

It was still hers.

She glanced at the trunks, wondering what she'd like to wear today, and caught sight of a little dish and a pretty etched glass on the dressing-table. She smiled again, and climbed out of bed, feeling the soft sheepskin beneath her feet—and went to the little fireplace to stick her feet into her warmed slippers before going to the dressing-table, picking out the hedgehog biscuit and sipping the sweet, still-frothy milk fresh from the dairy. She went to one of the windows, which faced east towards the ramshackle castle, and opened it, leaning her knees against the low, smooth window-ledge.

As she looked out over the fabulously green forest, which in places ranged from intense dark green to bright evergreens, silver birch, oak and occasionally, curious golden blooms that glimmered as if they'd been dipped in molten gold; these trees were the tallest, and had grey-silver trunks like those of…_More mellyrn trees_, Isabelle thought, straining to see them closer. They appeared sweeping around the base of the castle-hill, going off into the sunrise that made them shimmer and glow. She wondered what was beyond those trees, and if she would ever see them. Her mother and uncle had forbidden her from going into the forest.

As she gazed out over eastern Moonacre, she heard someone whistling; the sound came from far away, echoing, carried on the gentle breeze, a long, low, beautiful, melancholic tune, somehow otherworldly. Yet Isabelle knew the tune, she knew it instantly; her mother used to play a tune on the piano exactly like that; it was the first thing Isabelle had learned to play. And it sounded exactly like the little musical-box tune in the _Tuck Everlasting_ film. She straightened up, glancing around the walled gardens and the little woods poking into the property, but frowning, she saw nothing.

She _knew_ that song. She had heard it before, before she'd even seen _Tuck Everlasting_—and she remembered instantly the face that belonged to it, a face she had forgotten a long time ago; it was handsome, chiselled, with her grey eyes and beautiful golden hair that curled all over his head. _Who is he?_ she wondered, frowning. She strained to hear the song again, but whoever had been whistling in the woods had disappeared.

Isabelle left the window and glanced around. She wanted a _bath_. She frowned, tutting, and went to her trunks: she pulled out a heavier, warmer gown for today, a deep forest-green velvet with the overskirt cut down her left leg and pinned up at her right thigh to expose an underskirt of leaf-patterned green silk: the neckline was a low boat-neck, beautifully embroidered, with an inserted collar, and the trim of the long sleeves, wide from the elbow and falling to her calves, matched the underskirt. It was worn with a beautiful gold belt of openwork star-like medallions connected by delicate links. She picked out the forest-green stockings with the crimson ribbon ties and a warm cashmere camisole and bloomers set trimmed with lace and crimson ribbons.

_It's kinda nice wearing these old-fashioned things_, she thought, _but where's my bathroom_? She'd used the downstairs cloakroom all day yesterday.

She found her bathroom in the tower, one room down from her little parlour (she stopped again to examine the painting of the heartbroken woman) and it was a very lovely little room, with one enormous window filling the space between two wayward upturned branches; the solid silver bathtub stood in the middle of the room of its own accord, not hooked up to any pipes or anything, but as she closed the door behind her, she noticed that the bath was full of water—and it was still hot. Not the burning kind of hot that singed her skin if she tried to get in too early, but the comfortably _hot_ water she could relax into. There was a fireplace in the bathroom, which kept the room warm, and a full-length mirror by the window, a little basin in a wash-table with an urn on the shelf beneath and fluffy sheet-towels had been placed near the fire to warm.

_I wonder who does all this_, Isabelle thought, raising her eyebrows at the solid-silver bath. Who brought her the milk and biscuits in the morning, and tidied up her room in the afternoon and left her flapjacks in the evening for a supper snack? Who knew just when she would want everything ready, and who cleaned up after her? Who would do her washing and who made the dinners? Uncle Benjamin was _not_ the cooking type, she'd seen that first thing.

She placed her clothing on the chair beside the fire and stripped down to sink into the bath. The water smelt absolutely _gorgeous_, but she didn't know what the scent was. It made her feel all light-hearted and peaceful. She sank into the bath and noticed that on the inside sides of the bath, there were names inscribed into the silver.

The first name was Astrid, and written in an interesting Old English-style. Then came Freya and Astrid II, then Valeria, Freya II, Juno, Elizabeth I, and Loveday I, Grace, Marie, Maia, Sebastiana, Elizabeth II, Marie, Isabelle I, Lilith, Loveday II, Lucia, Grace II, Gail, Loveday III, Jane and Loveday IV, May, June, Lilith II, Daisy, Lily, Rose, Dorcas, May, Loveday V, Margaret, Elodie and Isabelle.

"Wow," Isabelle laughed softly. A complete documentation of every single female Merryweather descendent to have used the bathtub! "Interesting system," she laughed softly, pondering the name Loveday. It was quite weird, but pretty at the same time. Merryweathers apparently liked the name Loveday—there had been five of them, after all. It was a family name.

She washed her hair and sat soaking for a few more minutes before hauling herself out of the work of history that was the bathtub, wrapped herself in a still-warm towel and towelled her hair dry, wrapping it in a turban before pulling on her underwear and then the heavy under-dress and velvet overskirt. She found a pretty selection of silver-backed brushes and combs and little crystal pots with pins and cotton-balls on a small dresser by the fireplace and stood brushing her hair in front of a little mirror made of polished metal, which hung from the wall by a ribbon tied to a unicorn on the top of the mirror. She braided her curly hair from her temples to just past her ears, with a few wispy ringlets escaping, then coiled and braided the rest of her hair so it was all pinned together in a thick bun at the back of her head, using the beautiful tortoise-shell comb decorated with a large jade butterfly to hold it all into place.

Uncle Benjamin was already sitting in his armchair by the fire when she slipped downstairs (wearing her slippers beneath her dress) and he smiled at her appearance. She jumped the last two steps and strolled over towards the dining-room when Uncle Benjamin stood up, stretched, and joined her. Digweed bid her good morning from the dinner service and pulled her chair out for her; Isabelle smiled and thanked him, and noticed that today there was a big selection of breakfast foods: cheesy scrambled eggs, baked-beans, bacon, hash-browns, English muffins, toast, a big assortment of jams in wide-bowled gold dishes, a tureen of steaming porridge, one of creamy rice-pudding, a basket filled with hard-boiled eggs, enclosed in a cloth to keep them hot, as well as iced jugs of freshly-squeezed juice and water. Isabelle had to kneel up on her chair to reach the platters, and reached for a hard-boiled egg (she cut the top off and grinned, cutting her buttered toast into soldiers to dunk into the still-gooey yellow of the egg, and Digweed smiled complacently as he poured her a cup of tea from an antique silver teapot into a delicate white teacup.

"You have a healthy appetite, Isabelle," Uncle Benjamin chuckled with approval. "I see you have the Merryweather metabolism, too. You'll always be as thin as you are now, you know."

"I know—Mother never put any weight on," Isabelle said, licking her finger where she'd gotten melted butter on it. "And we _always_ eat a ton of food."

"You came to the right place, then," Uncle Benjamin chuckled. Isabelle wondered, not for the first time, who had prepared breakfast. And who had made that gorgeous strawberry-and-rhubarb crumble last night. After she had eaten her fill, Uncle Benjamin ushered Isabelle out of the dining-room for the tour of the house he had promised.

* * *

He showed her the library—which was accessed, as she'd thought, through the double-doors just at the foot of the stairs—which was packed with rows upon rows of bookcases absolutely stuffed with books of all shapes and sizes and bindings, and the tiny staircase which was hidden by the wooden panelling in the room, which led upstairs to he did not know what, because he was too tall for the staircase: "But I know it's a study: your great-great-grandmother Esme Merryweather had it commissioned. She spent hours in there, when she wasn't riding around Moonacre." He lifted the hidden latch and Isabelle crept up the steep, narrow stairs perfect for a person her height, or maybe a head taller; she found herself in a passageway, which led she thought into the house, and to the right, and at the end of the passage, which was lit softly with light from several porthole-like windows, she stepped into Great-Great-Grandmother Esme's utterly private little study.

It exuded comfort and warmth, panelled with gleaming rosewood, the furniture was all upholstered with fabric embroidered beautifully like the butterfly chair in the hall and her chairs in the tower, with lovely footstools and a small fireplace; there were watercolours everywhere, great pots of flowers that had somehow remained alive—Isabelle guessed the same person who looked after her looked after this room as well—and a lovely desk stood beneath one of the porthole-like windows facing out over the lawn. It was a pretty little room, perfect for a little lady, utterly private and peaceful, some place she could escape from her children, because they wouldn't know how to find the door, and her husband, who, if he had been Uncle Benjamin's height, wouldn't have been able to navigate the staircase. She went to the desk and examined it; there were small, shell-shaped gas lamps, like in her room upstairs, and little photograph frames and watercolours, pens and paints set out as if she had left them, intending to return and finish something. In the centre of the desk was a book—two black leather covers were bound by thin cord around pages made of thick, neatly-cut parchment paper. The front-cover was embossed with gold, and the little square in the middle housed an insignia—a swirling _E_ and an _M_. Isabelle opened the book to the front cover and read the few short words penned in neat, pretty writing.

_Esme Merryweather's_

_Field Guide to the Fantastical World_

_of Moonacre Valley_

23rd May, 1933

She made her way back into the library, smiling at Uncle Benjamin when she slipped out of the staircase to find him frowning into a book, leaning against a bookcase, and Isabelle had to poke him to let him know she was there. He jumped, laughed, and led her out of the library. The door next to the library was to Uncle Benjamin's study, "Which you may enter in times of great emergency," which meant, Isabelle knew—_Keep out_!

"And in here…" Uncle Benjamin smiled, as Digweed threw open the double-doors directly opposite the fireplace, and Isabelle raised her eyebrows. "The Reception Room." The great Reception Room, which former mistresses of the manor had used to entertain important guests had walls covered with white marble, and heavy cranberry curtains with lace sheers were draped at the large windows; an enormous woven carpet covered the dark-gold polished parquet floor, and a crystal chandelier with a ruby-red centre hung from the ceiling: the furniture was, Uncle Benjamin said, collected from the eighteenth century, and the room was decorated with several large paintings, a tapestry, and bronze busts. Isabelle's Grandmamma had not been as fond of this room as she was the Mauve Room, but Isabelle's great-grandmother Beatrix had loved it.

Off the Reception Room were several more double-doors; the one on the left, closest to the hall doorway, led to what had once been the schoolroom for Merryweather children when they were taught at home by a governess; the walls were decorated with thin bamboo sticks and painted with a forest scene, all animals of the woodland painted in; a set of glass double-doors led outside, and another little white door led to a conservatory filled with wicker furniture decked in soft cream cushions, with lacy sheers hung in the windows, a large chaise, and baskets full of yarn and embroidery thread.

The double-doors to the west wing beside the schoolroom opened out onto a beautiful room for tea, with a big bay window and access onto the cloister-like veranda filled with beautiful flowers and plants and herbs. The double-doors on the far wall led to the conservatory-like music-room, which featured three enormous bays, the far one holding a beautiful green piano, the one on the right a chaise and chairs, and the one on the left a beautiful gold harp and a little chair.

The doors to the east wing led to another, smaller library with a mezzanine balcony that served as a study. Beside the doors to the east wing hung a great Merryweather tapestry which, like the _Ancient and Most Noble House of Black_, recorded every single generation of Merryweathers since the family began. Since the room was so high-ceilinged, the tapestry was absolutely enormous. She couldn't even read half the names (mostly because she was so small) but she estimated there was at least a thousand years' worth of family history. And then Uncle Benjamin led her to her tower, which she still had not explored entirely.

"I think you will love this room the best," Uncle Benjamin said, smiling as he opened the tall double-doors hung with heavy, rich velvet. "This is the Maple Room. Your grandmother Beatrix commissioned the redesign for your mother when she was young." Isabelle entered the Maple Room. And stopped, staring around. It was without a doubt the most fabulous room she had ever been in.

The walls were painted a soft, rusty pink, with carved and moulded white-plaster trellises of cabbage-roses, which intertwined to a green circle in the high ceiling; an overhanging cornice inset with green glass behind the rose carvings concealed gas lamps that flickered on when Uncle Benjamin pressed a button by the door, casting golden light up to the ceiling. The room got its name from the fabulous Maplewood balcony on the other end of the room, which soared across the whole width of the room, convex at the top with a fireplace beneath and two cosy-corners, and a narrow, sinuously-carved staircase rose from the upper-right-hand corner of the room up to the balcony. There were several little spots in the room, created by tables and chairs, and the prettiest one was the one in the lower-right-hand corner, where a curved bench had been built beneath a built-in Maplewood cabinet of silver and glass. There were bearskin rugs tossed over the soft grey-green carpet, pastel paintings and watercolours and oil paintings and bronze statues—"and this is you," Uncle Benjamin smirked, gesturing at a life-size marble sculpture of a young child, no more than two years old.

Isabelle frowned at the sculpture—more because it was her than because someone had paid to have a sculpture of her made. How had her grandparents come across a sculpture of her. It was still astounding that she couldn't remember living here. She stood, staring at the sculpture, studying her baby self. She still had the same exquisite facial structure, the high cheekbones, the pretty, lovely little nose and the enigmatic eyes that the sculptor had not quite done justice.

Even if she _had_ only been a baby, it was still no excuse not to remember a place as beautiful as Moonacre. Uncle Benjamin led her to one of the enormous windows draped with delicate lace and silk curtains, and was surprised when Uncle Benjamin opened the middle one, which was actually double-doors, onto a balcony. Because the room was in the tower, the balcony was raised on top of the main body of the house, and it looked south, the most beautiful view. It was a covered balcony, entirely of wood with columns like delicate cloisters, keeping with the cabbage-rose pattern of the Maple Room, keeping up the roof, also hung with delicate curtains that could be pulled back with sashes or let out when it was too sunny; a large polished table stood in the centre of the balcony, with wicker furniture everywhere.

"Oh _wow_," Isabelle gasped softly, beaming. She could definitely, definitely live here forever. "Can we eat here from now on?"

"If you'd like," Uncle Benjamin chuckled. "It would be a shame not to enjoy the sunshine."

"I bet you could eat here in the wintertime too," Isabelle remarked, noting the ceramic stove in the corner. She noticed how the cushions on all of the wicker furniture—there was a rocking-chair and a chaise a little away from the table, with chairs by the stove, and twelve chairs at the table—were all of a soft creamy-coloured fabric, all of them very _clean_ and brilliant. As if they'd just been pulled out of storage. She noticed how someone with expert needlecraft had embroidered the little throw-cushions, each with a different pattern. Leaning closer to the chaise, she noticed that one pillow was of forget-me-not clusters, another was of lilacs, one had pretty harebell-shaped flowers that were a pale, shimmering gold, and the fourth was embroidered with peacock tail-feathers. The stitches were tiny and delicate, with so much thought and care put into each tiny stitch: Isabelle _knew_ these stitches.

"Did Mother embroider all these cushions?" she asked, frowning.

"Mm…" Uncle Benjamin said, gazing out over the valley, and she thought, towards that tumbledown castle. "I think she did the majority of them when she was carrying you, just after this room was completed."

They went back into the Maple Room and Uncle Benjamin led the way up the sinuous staircase to the balcony, which featured another chaise, bookshelves and a little work-table, and through the door, which opened out into a lovely little room. "This used to be your nursery," Uncle Benjamin smiled. The walls were pink like the Maple Room, but there was no white-plaster work, only a lovely frieze below the cornice of brilliant jewel-bright butterflies and dragonflies flitting through a network of pale-pink peonies in full bloom. There were pretty watercolours on the walls and black-and-white photographs, and a large mural was painted on the far wall: the Twelve Dancing Princesses, all clad in beautiful gowns, like the one Isabelle wore only a lot more beautiful, decadent, for balls, with interesting headdresses and beautiful faces and the Merryweather hands—delicate, pretty hands with slender fingers and pretty nails, walking through a glittering grove of trees with silver trunks, the floor and canopy glowing with gold, and in fact, the trees they walked between were actually the slender branches of the mellyrn. In the centre of the large room was a beautiful Maplewood cradle, carved with cabbage-roses and filled with mounds of rose-pink blankets of the softest cashmere, trimmed with her mother's needle-lace and pink ribbon.

The room was so large it could have fit at least ten more cradles in, and Isabelle wondered if at one point someone _had_ had a family that large to fill this room with children. She smiled at the idea; she had always loved babies, and a very lonely girl, she had always wanted a large family—the only problem was that her shyness severely dampened the amount of contact she had with the key component in large families; a boy.

They left the nursery through the door to the staircase and made their way up, to a little work-room that looked like an extension of the forget-me-not sky outside because of the shimmering pale-blue silk covering the walls, and the delicate white-linen upholstery on the mellyrn-wood furniture. Doves, forget-me-nots, bluebells and those curiously lovely golden harebells were embroidered on the upholstery and a delicate desk stood under one of the windows, draped with a delicate lace cloth, the stitches so tender and familiar that it upset her. This was her mother's studio. There was an old dress-form, and on one of the dressers there was an open sketchbook absolutely stuffed with drawings and swatches of fabric and trim details.

"And now, I'll show you the gardens and the stables," Uncle Benjamin smiled. "I think you've already seen the bathroom. The other rooms are just for storage. Why don't you go and put on the riding boots?" Isabelle nodded, wondering why she would need those knee-high boots, but she did as she was asked and slipped upstairs, tugging the over-the-knee boots of the softest black leather on; they moulded to her legs and she hated to have to cover them with her heavy velvet and silk skirts. She slipped downstairs again and found Uncle Benjamin waiting in the hall, and he offered his arm before setting down the steps.

They took a tour of all the walled gardens and the grounds of Moonacre—Isabelle especially loved a beautiful mellyrn-wood gazebo tucked out of plain sight in a private sequestered little copse of small mellyrn trees (Uncle Benjamin said they were still seedlings, and it would take centuries for them to reach the magnificence of the wood by Merryweather Bay. Like the woods of the Bay, these trees had shimmering gold trunks, while the flowers in bloom were a beautiful gold, and the floor was carpeted with golden leaves. In the largest walled garden, the beautiful and most cultured, yet the one which still retained a sort of naturalness about it, stood an enormous horse-chestnut tree, which Uncle Benjamin dubbed 'the party tree.' He gave Isabelle free reign to pick any flowers she wanted, but didn't give her time today because he wanted to show her the stables.

She remembered she was wearing riding-boots, and followed her uncle, quaking tremulously with nerves. She had never even been _near_ a horse before. The closest she'd come to a horse was watching Colin Firth's Mr Darcy ride one in the BBC production of _Pride and Prejudice_. Uncle Benjamin showed her into the courtyard belonging to the stables, and she saw there were several split doors along the right-hand side of the U-shaped building and on the left were several tall arched doors Uncle explained belonged to the carriage and wagon. The fact that he had said 'carriage' and 'wagon' made Isabelle know instantly there were no such things as automobiles in Moonacre.

She was kind of glad. Nothing should be able to ruin this place.

"Here, take these," Uncle Benjamin smiled, reaching into his pocket; he dropped a handful of white sugar-cubes into Isabelle's outstretched palm, and he led her to Digweed, who stood waiting with the reins of a white horse in his hand. The horse was absolutely the purest fairytale white horse, except for the liquid black ink eyes fringed with dark lashes. "This is Stella," Uncle Benjamin smiled, brushing Stella's neck and smiling contentedly. "She is yours."

"Mine?" Isabelle stared, glancing at her uncle. She'd never even _seen_ a horse much less ridden one. "But, Uncle, I—"

"You aren't going to tell me you can't ride, are you?" Uncle Benjamin asked, giving her a reproving frown. He rolled his eyes and tutted, and she thought she heard him curse her mother as he turned to another stable door, where a beautiful chestnut horse waited patiently. "Every Merryweather can ride, Isabelle—you yourself were taught from a very young age on Periwinkle."

"Periwinkle?" Isabelle asked, and someone whickered softly, poking their dappled grey nose over a stable door. Periwinkle was a tiny pony, and suddenly Isabelle _could_ remember riding; she was sat on Periwinkle's back, and a man with a head of beautiful curling chestnut hair beamed at her, though his face was wrinkled and worn with age, with glittering, youthful chestnut eyes, as he led her round a corral. It was her Grandpapa.

She jumped, yanked from her reverie about the only memory of her Grandpapa she could remember, when something wet and kind of hairy nuzzled her open palm. She glanced at her hand and jumped again, noticing how close Stella's head was now that she'd seen Isabelle had treats for her. She grazed gently, careful not to nick Isabelle's skin, as she crunched on the sugar-cubes. Isabelle smiled, and when Stella had finished the sugar-cubes, she raised her hand to stroke Stella's nose and pat her neck.

Digweed taught her how to put Stella's saddle on, and how to take it off again, and then Isabelle faced the daunting task of actually mounting Stella's back. In a dress.

She grabbed hold of the saddle, raised her left foot to hook it into the stirrup, then hooked the skirt of her dress over her knee so it didn't snag, and hauled herself onto Stella's back, swinging her leg over quickly, groaning at the effort on her weak arms. She settled into the saddle, hooked her feet into the stirrups, and sorted out her skirt so the back draped magnificently, and just about covered most of her curious little bloomers, so only the crimson ribbons of the trim, and those of her stockings showed.

Uncle Benjamin mounted Atlas, his chestnut stallion, and Digweed surrendered Stella's reins with a smile, reminding her she needn't be too hard on the reins because Stella was very intuitive. So they set off, around the front of the house, and made their way around Moonacre, before heading off towards the village of Silverydew.

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review! I know it's mostly description.


	6. AUTHOR'S PLEA

**Author's Note**

Hello, loyal followers of my _Claws Away, Kitten! _and _The Secret of Moonacre Valley_ stories; I know you'll probably all be sending me gamma-rays of hate after discovering that actually I haven't updated either story, but I wanted to post a note.

Due to outgrowing a lot of my unfinished stories, I've decided to put a handful of them up for adoption, including _Claws Away, Kitten_! but I'm undecided whether to just delete _The Secret of Moonacre Valley_, unless someone wants to adopt it.

However, to compensate for deleting/abandoning these two stories, I thought I'd compensate by writing a new story that envelopes some of the themes of my other two stories.

After watching "The Vampires of Venice" episode of _Doctor Who_ with the beautiful Helen McRory as the sexy fish-vampire; Rachel Khoo's fab cooking programmes; the _Spiderwick Chronicles_ film and the concept of the 'field-guide'; listening to the _Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring_ soundtrack; a photograph of Karlie Kloss in gorgeous lipstick backstage at an _Anna Sui_ fashion-show; and seeing a mood-board of _MAC_ lipstick, a pretty blue shepherd's hut, and Rachel Khoo's book and a pair of juicy red patent court heels, I got _inspired_.

I want to bring a modern-day girl into Moonacre Valley with her mother, Benjamin's sister (portrayed by Helen McRory, because she was so fantastic in _Doctor Who_) and put my own spin on the lifestyle in Moonacre (combination of The Shire, the _Boat That Rocked_, Rachel Khoo's tiny kitchen, pub-culture, _Cranford_'s annual fête and _The Secret Garden_) and make the pearls situation a little less melodramatic, and give the girl the sassiness that Isabella had in _Claws Away_, with funny one-liners she learns from The Doctor, Captain Jack Sparrow and Gimli.

So what do you think? Give the present _Moonacre_ stories up for adoption or delete them, and put up one story that I will actually update?

I thought about traditions for the Merryweather and De Noir family names; the Merryweather family uses gemstones or constellation names, and the De Noir family uses nature names, i.e. Robin, etc.

Taking _Private Messages_ for name suggestions, plot twists etc.


End file.
